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11 – of Lyrpole and the Jarg Flim not Ark Noon

did I tell you about the frigid girl

I knew when I was 18, no, if I told

you would you mark me, brand me

on my rump as someone who couldn’t

get the deal done, it wasn’t like that

anyway, I know you think that’s why

I’m doing this, legging it, see it’s

not fair that, that thought that festers,

beware that festering thought,

beware those dreams, no, night terrors

where she isn’t frigid, where she’s

a maiden blossomed, where she wears

a light dress, Lilly white, her lips too red,

and she’s not frigid, she’s Britt Ekland

pounding on the wall, beware that dream,

the one where she dances through groves

or orchards or fields of corn of fields of men,

naked and she’s not dancing,

she’s running from me, because she was bound

to grow fair, she was bound to grow comely

and the world was bound to be an orchard to her,

a fruit just picked, a peach, an apple,

anything with flesh, anything with juice,

maybe it’s because I haven’t had an apple

for months, years even, and I can’t remember

the last time I tasted a peach, what is a peach

anyway, look, now everything

is coming over me like a flood,

no, not a flood, like a choking fog,

like a suffocating fug,

so I can’t see where I’m going

and stepping forward feel air,

feel what it is to fall

and so fall into the sea,

not into her breasts, don’t be silly,

things were never going to end that way

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About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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